Blaze (19 page)

Oh, God, what was she doing here?

*

Ali buzzed Belinda. ‘I want to talk to the head of advertising at the Happi Food company. The one that just signed up that football star . . . it was announced last week.'

When the advertising director of Happi Foods came on the line, Ali kept the niceties brief before plunging in. ‘I'm wondering if I could send my advertising manager around to persuade you to take out a contract to advertise your products in
Blaze.
Our demographics are very suited to your market.' She listened as he waffled at the other end of the line. ‘I am very aware you're planning an expensive TV campaign with your star spokesperson. That's why I thought you might be changing tack and would be open to new avenues for your advertising. Given the circumstances.'

There was a pause at the end of the line and Ali went on pleasantly. ‘I understand one of those nasty TV shows is planning to do the whole sordid story about him . . . yes, it could be very unfortunate.' She visualised the man at the other end of the phone with his head in his hand. ‘Of course, there are ways to stop the story . . . if one has influence. And if it's worth one's while . . .' She waited, smiling slightly. ‘I thought you would see it that way. No promises, but I'm sure the network would see fit to drop the story. Shame to disillusion all those sports fans. Though it would have been a nice way for them to stick it to their competition, which has the football TV rights. Now, could Reg Craven see you in the next day or so?'

Ali called Reg. ‘Happi Foods are going to take out a nice fat advertising contract with us. They're dumping or downplaying their football person's budget to go in
Blaze
instead . . . Why? Well, I did him a small favour.'

Ali hung up, pleased at Reg's stunned reaction – glad for the revenue but annoyed he hadn't landed the account. So much of this was mere wheeling and dealing in perceptions. As far as Ali knew, unless Dane had talked to someone else – and for what she was paying him privately for any information he gleaned, he'd better not be – no TV show knew about the incident in the bar. She had bluffed the food company. She needed Reg to sign them up quickly before anything did leak out.

The concierge at Georges Cinq opened the door of the limousine waiting for Miche, Nina and Claudia Harrison, the elegant Belgian-born wife of the Australian Ambassador to Paris. ‘
Mesdames
,
amusez-vous bien aux collections
!
Lesquels voyez-vous aujourd'hui
?'

‘Christian Lacroix.
Merci
, Pierre.'

Miche glanced out the window of the limousine at the Parisian scenes, so familiar from movies and postcards. ‘I can't believe I'm here doing this!'

Claudia leaned over and tapped her knee, ‘Me too, petite. After eighteen months here, I pinch myself every day. Despite being Belgian, I adore this city.'

Nina and Miche laughed at Claudia's rich guttural and rolling ‘Rs'. Even after spending many years of her life in Australia, her Belgian accent hadn't softened.

‘Nina, this must be so humdrum to you,' sighed Miche. ‘You go everywhere, know everyone – or rather they know you. In New York I hadn't realised how famous you were over here.'

‘Only in small circles, Miche. I've been lucky with friends. And don't forget my work opens doors. Though when I started, that wasn't a consideration.'

Miche gave her an affectionate smile. ‘Well, when you turn out something as spectacular as
Blaze
, it's no wonder. I so want a successful career in journalism. I love writing about life, what's happening around me. One day I would like to publish my journals.'

‘Miche is a serious chronicler. And really that's what magazines are about, reflecting what's going on around us,' said Nina.

‘Well,
chérie
,' said Claudia to Miche, ‘are you going to write something about the collections? It's madness, wonderful, but crazy. We are having a reception at the embassy for a few Australian designers soon – two beautiful people, Collette Dinnigan and Len Osborne – and also the new little model everyone is mad about. She's Australian and she is already going to be sooo famous. And still such a baby. You must meet her.'

Nina was quietly delighted with Claudia's idea. It was a fabulous opportunity for Miche and the concept came free of any suggestion of pressure from Nina. ‘It certainly does sound like a first-class story,' she added. ‘What do you think, Miche?'

‘A peer perspective?' mused Miche.

‘Why not? You aren't qualified to comment on the fashions, but a story on how the Australian designers have made it this far sounds like interesting copy. The model angle adds a touch of spice. I'm sure you'll produce a story that's different from the fashion coverage,' suggested Nina. ‘As far as I know, this new model has done a few covers and spreads and this is her first time on the catwalk. There hasn't been any personal stuff.'

‘It's not Sally Shaw, is it?' said Miche, crinkling her forehead as she vaguely recalled reading about the new Australian find in the model world.

‘That's her. But you know, Miche, you too are so pretty, you could be a model. You can make
such
money . . .' Claudia shook her wrists making her bracelets jangle. ‘Though maybe you are too attractive. Some of these models, they look like creatures from space.'

‘Not me! I'd hate it. I'm too shy. And I couldn't pose, do that stuff.' Miche dismissed the suggestion.

But the two older women appraised the lovely younger one sitting opposite them in the stretch limousine thinking she could very well be a model – if classic good looks and a wholesome body were back in vogue. Miche had high cheekbones, wonderful green cat's eyes and silky blonde hair that today was swept up – normally it fell in smooth waves to her shoulders. Her complexion tended to be light olive and tanned easily. Miche detested the way everyone in New York seemed to favour dark clothes and pale skin tones. Just like the artificial light and grimy, sunless streets so many lived in. She had always loved Nina's more Mediterranean look and choice of brilliant colours.

With Miche in Paris, Nina became her goddaughter's guide to the city of chic, leading Miche into the grand salons of the design houses, where the couture price tags made Miche gasp.

‘We'll buy you one good outfit, a classic that you'll wear for years. But you must love it first,' said Nina.

Miche had been unable to fall in love with suits or dresses that could pay for her first six months in Australia. So they had compromised. Nina bought her a pair of Ferragamo shoes and a Chanel handbag, labels she loved. Both were in quality black leather that was elegant yet could be worn and carried with jeans. Then they'd gone shopping along the Right Bank. As they passed the Louvre, Miche clutched Nina, ‘I must spend a day in there!'

‘You must. But today – and tomorrow – is for shopping.'

‘Where are we going tomorrow? I see why you said wear comfortable shoes,' laughed Miche.

‘Saint Germain des Prés, the 6th Arrondissement. It's more sophisticated. But you must develop your eye for appreciating quality and style. Even a simple white T-shirt can be incredibly chic if it is cut well, the cotton the finest and the shape very now. Then you can wear it with a chiffon evening skirt and a shawl or with linen resort pants and coloured tennis shoes – without the laces.'

Miche had shaken her head. ‘Just looking at the women in the street, I'm beginning to understand what the word chic really means.'

‘You keep your own sense of style and what you like, Miche. It's understanding the quality of the fabric, how it's made, and how it feels. Clothes should feel like part of you, move with you, flatter you, make you feel positive about yourself when you wear them.'

Let loose in a sea of boutiques where every item had been chosen with care and a discerning eye, Miche had burrowed through shelves and racks choosing interesting fabrics, delicate prints and pastel colours. Nina found several unusual little jackets, exquisite scarves and a fifties-style, cropped pair of black and white pants that Miche adored.

In one tiny overflowing shop, Miche twirled in front of the small mirror. She was wearing a cream cashmere shrunk top, black seventies flared hipster pants, teamed with a grey chiffon print evening top that floated around her slim body. Laced ankle boots in mulberry suede with curved twenties heels were a favourite find. ‘I would never have thought of putting these together! Nina, you're brilliant.'

‘Inherited talent from Clara. My mother was very creative with scraps of fabric and design. She was a milliner, but would have been a clever couturier had she had the opportunity.'

Their shopping ended when they came to a small specialist jewellery store selling handmade one-off designs carefully selected from around the world. Both Miche and Nina fell in love with some beautiful beadwork from South Africa – traditional intricate patterns, from the Ndebele people, woven into elaborate necklaces. Nina bought herself a dramatic high, beaded collar that had a cascade frill of diamonds and gold.

‘These are beautiful pieces. Who makes them?' asked Miche.

‘These pieces are crafted by a South African jewellery designer, Kevin Friedman, who works with the Ndebele village women. They make the beadwork under a special scheme to help them become independent and protect them from exploitation,' explained the shop owner. ‘I like to find jewellery that combines contemporary ideas while still keeping the old ways alive. The Ndebele people are one of the only tribes in South Africa that have kept their heritage and traditions so strongly. I travel the world looking for such special pieces.'

‘Now there's a story for
Blaze
,' smiled Miche. ‘I'll add that to my list.'

Late that afternoon, Nina had taken Miche to the funky, revamped 11th Arrondissement on the Left Bank. On Rue Oberkampf they spurned the newly trendy bistros and restaurants for old-world venues that had become fun cafés with artistic menus and a partying crowd, where music, laughter and energy pumped into the street.

Two days later, as their car headed towards Rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré for the showing of Christian Lacroix's latest collection, Miche felt more attuned to the undercurrent of fashion that was a Parisian's lifeblood.

Claudia was wearing a Richard Taylor suit. ‘He's from Australia, so I'm waving the flag. And for the reception, of course, I'll wear my Carla Zampatti. The cream silk skirt and top.'

Today Nina had chosen Chanel. Miche wore pale grey pants with a simple white T-shirt under a cropped black jacket and relieved the severity with a jaunty red beret trimmed with a scarlet quill. Her new Ferragamos and Chanel handbag teamed perfectly.

Nina had always been a regular at the Paris fashion house collections. As renowned for her own style and beauty as for her powerful position, she was automatically ushered to one of the fiercely fought-for small, gold front row seats. Behind the velvet ropes, fashion writers, buyers and celebrities entered into a type of warfare that sometimes erupted into shrieks and tears. The world's photographers – fashion, news and freelance – scrambled and pushed against the catwalk. Elegant or just rich women, who could pay the thousands of dollars for couture outfits, bashed at the photographers who blocked their way, hitting them with rolled programs, sunglasses, handbags or stilettos.

Nina, Claudia and Miche settled themselves on the thin-legged gilt chairs, noting the movie star, pop star and famous writer seated along the row. Nina nodded at the cream of the fashion editors and the elite heads of the international model agencies who were quick to attract her attention.

‘I suppose you know everyone here,' whispered Miche.

‘Most of them. It's a bit of a smorgasbord every year. But a lot of familiar faces, of course. I've always wondered whether people come for the clothes, the models, the show or the whole scene.'

‘All of that. Okay, there's Bandeau.' Claudia glanced along the row to where a tall man dressed in leather, his silver hair in a ponytail, a braided band across his forehead, tinted glasses and a goatee, was kissing the women around him.

Nina laughed. ‘You sound like a fan at a rock show. How come you know a fashion photographer?'

‘Well, they did make a movie about him. He did a photo session at the Baron's estate in Liège when we were visiting. You remember how beautiful it is. It was for the Paris edition of
Blaze
. Wedding dresses. Very romantic.' Claudia gave an arch smile. ‘How is the dear Baron?'

‘Oscar is well. Now I'm moving to Australia we won't be in daily contact. But we will still have
Blaze Australia
as a bond, and I will see him at board meetings in New York.' Nina turned her attention to the salon, which was jammed with people. The world's fashion press were sparring and jostling for positions to see the narrow white walkway that was flanked by tubs of flowers and had suspended screens above the tiny stage at one end. A flash went off, capturing the personalities in the front row.

‘Nina, the Baron adores you. Why are you bothering yourself with this new magazine? Why don't you . . .' Claudia fumbled for the right word, waving her expressive hands, ‘do more of this? Enjoy yourself.'

‘This is work for me. Of course, these showings and our luncheons at L'Orangerie are lots of fun. It's always necessary to keep up with the collections.'

‘I meant spend more time in Europe. Surely Oscar can let Triton run itself these days. Bernard can't wait to retire. This summer we're cruising in Greece. Do come. Forty people. Bring Oscar.'

‘Stop matchmaking, Claudia, but thank you for the invitation. If Oscar and I have one big thing in common, it's not a wild attraction for each other. Rather it's keeping our hands on the business. Not that we don't have excellent people, but it's a massive part of your life.'